The Stone Scry Page 2

  Dad’s mosquitoes fight off a lot of diseases sprouting from those new swamps. He is all over the news, you probably saw him. When yellow fever broke out south of us, a couple of years ago, they dropped them in and stopped the outbreak. I guess the females die right after feeding, and the males produce babies carrying Dad’s unique gene. Those females grow up, feed, and die. After a few cycles, the mosquitos disappear until others move in, but those are not vectoring diseases. People on the news say they prevent Zika and all types of encephalitis. That is pretty awesome! Me, I would rather live underwater. Scuba diving is popular in North Carolina, I might try it out.

  Missing you, love you, and wishing you the best Grandma,

  Sam

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Lisa Mason hollered her son’s name, Sam, from her comfortable couch in the Masons’ suburban home in Cary, North Carolina. Her 1960 split-level styled home consisted of three levels. Thus, vying for the attention of a child became an act in frustration. At night the walls bounced small noises morphing light sleep into insomnia. During the day, chores and playtime blended sound into an impenetrable lead plate.

  “Sammy!” Lisa repeated, resisting the urge to lug herself off the couch and hunt down the boy.

  She and her husband, Tom Mason, awoke to an amorous mood. The washing machine rocked and trembled with no clothes inside. Her legs and buttocks now sore, getting up took the strength of Sisyphus. The couch was soft and cozy, more comfortable to sleep in than the bed.

  Spending every muscle, she rose towards the connecting stairs and projected with an irritated voice: “Samuel Thomas Mason, are you awake? Answer me!”

  “What?”

  His response was not short and sharp but drawn-out—“Whueaht?”

  Lisa bit her lip, stemming anger. Not angry at Sam, she cursed the layout of the house. “Sammy!”

  Thumps of not-so-little feet traveled towards his bedroom door. “Yes, Mamma?”

  “You need to take out the trash!”

  “I will do it in a minute. I need to keep a game server open for my friends.”

  “I’ve already told you twice! Get your clod-hopper feet downstairs and clear the trash.”

  “But we’re playing Fallout—”

  Sam loved playing the videogame. Set in a post-apocalyptic world, he built bustling settlements and zapped evil raiders guilty of hewing the heads off innocent settlers. His online friends across the country teamed up to charge ghouls with flesh dripping off their faces and hunt mutated animals, using their skins for making clothes and cooking their meat for sustenance. An entire weekend passed by in a blink, the only muscles he exercised existed below the elbow.

  “Now!”

  “Yes, Momma.”

  She swiveled back to the couch and flopped satisfied at the sound of moving clod-hoppers, and her shoulders unwound to the calming sounds of rain. She hated the new norm, foot after foot for months, but it did have perks. A soothing, rhythmic plucking orchestrated along the gutters and a light pelting percussion drummed across the rooftop. Gusts of wind through green ash and sweetgum trees completed the ensemble.

  Lisa watched Sam drag the trash bag to the front door, brushing the clean floor with it. “Keep the bag off the ground, child.”

  He lifted it for two steps and stopped, squinting through the decorative glass.

  “Sam, I told you, a little water won’t kill you.”

  “Somebody’s here.”

  Lisa understood the impetus of his insurrection. Sam was an introvert, and it was hard for him to make conversation. Compounding the problem, teachers labeled him gifted: GC/GT. A term lauded by parents but for poor Sam, a curse. His GC/GT diseased friends viewed him as competition, and he considered peers without the label as school pablum. As a result, the motivation to make new friends at school waned by the day. Five years younger and the PTA would have subjugated him to the rumor mill churning out bets on the next school shooter, but these days PTA meetings focused on teaching survivalist techniques and providing neighborhood support.

  Rising in a sympathetic aura, Lisa said, “Take it out the backdoor.” She monitored him hauling the bag away and then crept towards a living room window guarded by sheer curtain panels. Swiveling her head, she tried to steal a sight of the approaching figure.

  He wore a uniform. Cascading streams of rainwater ran down his officer’s cap as the man stepped onto the porch. He straightened his coat and swept beads of water off his steamed trousers, and rang the doorbell.

  Cracking the door open, she asked, “Can I help you?”

  “Dr. Lisa Mason? Lieutenant Commander Andy Ochoa.” His handshake lifted the rack of medals affixed to his jacket.

  “Hello, Commander Ochoa.”

  “Ma’am, is your husband home?”

  “May I ask why, commander?”

  “I need to speak to him.”

  “Well, you can reach him during business hours at the university.”

  A trashcan lid slapped shut. Good, Lisa thought, I only told Sammy three times.

  “I’m sorry ma’am, but my visit is confidential, to be frank.”

  “Oh?” She felt her eyebrow cock upward. Tom always laughed when she did it; the mannerism reminded him of Stephen Colbert. Once Sam teased calling her “The Rock” while watching the remake of Jumanji, but the poke was very, very short-lived. “You should come back later.”

  “Apologies, ma’am, but we need to speak directly.”

  “Hard to know when Tom will be home, depending on his experiments.”

  “I can wait in my vehicle if you prefer.”

  The hour was getting late in what had been a hectic day. Her joints ached, her lower back was sore, and her neck felt like a solid two by four. The well-lit house and cozy couch beckoned. “Please come in, won’t you?”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He stepped in and stamped polished shoes on the threshold rug.

  Taking his coat, she heard Sam settle in the kitchen to do homework—within eavesdropping range. This better not have to do with the military base, she thought.

  Lisa steeped a K-cup and brought Lieutenant Commander Andy Ochoa coffee. Then, digging into her couch, she asked, “As my guest, I hope you can elaborate on why you’re here?”

  And he pivoted. “When do you expect Dr. Mason home?”

  “I texted him while making coffee. He’s on his way. Does this have to do with the old Dorothea Dix grounds?”

  “An astute question”—he pointed—“I am not at liberty to discuss why I’m here, but a valid question.”

  “Do you know what the government plans to build?”

  “It is public information. We have unfortunately shouldered many obloquies in Raleigh. We are building a naval laboratory facility to support coastal operations. The label says Camp Dix on the plans, but that may change to Fort Dix depending on funding.”

  Sam heard her ask, “What’s the difference?” The question sounded distant. He knew the tone, hearing it when rain chilled to forty degrees. During those days, she frowned at the window wrapped in a heavy comforter. An event horizon blanketing a black hole of sadness. He knew she felt trapped.

  People moved to North Carolina for pristine summer beaches and extravagant fall mountains. Over five years since moving from Los Angeles, seaside haunts slid into disrepair under constant flooding and developers felled rolling, dense forests of hemlocks and red maples to accommodate evacuees and their tax dollars. While Sam watched Carolina’s luster diminish, it remained viable by maintaining infrastructure and public services. Unlike many regions in the United States.

  Commander Ochoa replied to Lisa’s question, “Well, camp implies a transient nature. For example, we built Camp Lejeune to train marines. Fort Bragg is a permanent location for USA-SOC and the Eighteenth.”

  “Do you expect it will change to Fort Dix?”

  “You know the answer better than anyone, Dr. Lisa Mason. If you will forgive my forwardness.”

  “And you’re sure of this, why?”

&
nbsp; “I do my homework like your son in the kitchen. Before Sam, you were a PI—a principal investigator—for a large pharmaceutical company. You know how management operates when money is loose.”

  “Vultures,” she muttered, brooding at the floor.

  “New lab facilities do not have short-term plans.”

  Sam heard anger rising in her voice and tapped his pencil on the study sheet. He avoided confrontations like cats avoided water, but his mom seemed to invite it. Lisa’s eyes would widen, and a smirk would curve across her lips when some unfortunate nobody dropped a challenge in her lap. And when a drama dry-spell set in, she stayed sharp watching telenovelas and stepping up for friends in dire need. Poor Ochoa, he had no idea what he had done turning on his conversational highbeams while driving in front of Lisa Mason. Sam braced for her response.

  “Commander Ochoa”—Lisa wrapped her fingers together—“my husband loves his job. Tom, considered one of the top U.S. entomologists, routinely turns down lucrative job offers from the private sector. Do you believe he would leave his research to become a government lackey? An underpaid stooge who couldn’t print an article without review by policymakers? Once intelligent individuals who migrated to a government job to die?”

  Lisa trembled at the notion of her husband losing his dream job, slaving away in some dark underground hive of military labs. Sure, Tom could tell me what he’s working on, but he’d have to kill me, she bitterly imagined.

  Headlights flashed off the walls creating dancing globular shapes around their faces.

  “There he is,” Lisa remarked, eyebrow doing a Colbert lift. “Good luck, Lieutenant Commander.” She followed Tom’s shadow as he hiked the porch steps and entered.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  The young commander lifted, holding his cap. “Lieutenant Commander Andy Ochoa, sir.”

  “Oh, hello there, commander. Lisa, is Sammy done with his homework?”

  Lisa Mason remained seated, glancing towards the kitchen doorway. “I don’t think so.” She smirked and said, “Commander Ochoa is here, honey, regarding Fort Dix.” She then frowned, Ochoa seemingly unphased by her jibe. “Tom, can I get you anything?”

  “Uh, no thanks sweetie, I’m good.” Shaking his clothes, Tom Mason set down a heavy backpack like those carried by tenured professors and asked, “Well now commander, what can I do for you? You want to discuss the facilities zoned for Dorothea Dix, I take it?” He motioned to sit and followed in kind, landing in an overly padded rocking chair.

  “Sir, I am here to offer a position.”

  “I see.” He asked Lisa, “Honey, I think I will take you up on that offer. Can you get me a glass of ice water and a beer?” Tom watched Lisa exit the living room holding Ochoa’s cup before continuing, “Did you want to discuss this at the lab?”

  In the kitchen, Sam rigorously tapped his pencil on his homework. Not in concentration, but anxiety. The move from Los Angeles to Raleigh left his friends behind. Kids here faked friendship to search for weakness. Others took to bad habits, leading to bad grades. They would work for him someday. He would command a team and fight to save humanity, just like Dad and his scientists. Dad took orders from no one. All the people in the military followed orders.

  As Lisa prepared a glass of ice water, Sam whispered to her, “Momma, is Dadda going to work for the army?”

  She stroked his soft, bushy hair and said, “Navy, sweetie. I hope not.”

  “I hope not, too.”

  Back in the living room, Ochoa adjusted his coat and replied to Tom’s question, “I am sorry, sir, but my visit here is not a public matter. The Navy wishes to offer you a job as a civilian scientist overseeing several labs. You would report to a PI and build vaccines while continuing your vector control research.”

  “I see,” Tom said and slouched. “So, who is to interview me? Should I choose to pursue this opportunity, and I am not saying I will.”

  A smile lifted on Ochoa’s face as he crossed his legs. “You have been pre-selected. No interview. You can agree or decide not to.”

  “Well, who selected me?”

  Lisa responded as she returned, holding Tom’s beer and a glass of water to stabilize it, “Does it matter, honey? You’ve become a rock star in the science community. When is the last time you were able to publish anything, between the interviews, patents, and solicitations?”

  Tom’s muscles tensed; she projected palpable smugness towards Ochoa.

  Dr. Tom Mason never discussed with his family about the workload Arnold Stone laid down on his back. Diversifying projects under Stone’s direction pushed his knowledge envelope near bursting. When something went wrong, the stumble was proportional to the troubleshooting required to fix it. His benefactor referred to these stumbles as “opportunities.” Tom saw them as warning signs.

  Lieutenant Commander Ochoa’s visit posted another danger signal in a long trail of warnings, and Tom would again accede to another Arnold Stone opportunity.

  “Yes, well…commander,” Tom said, “can you please tell me who led the candidate selection?”

  “I cannot disclose such information. I will answer all your questions, should you accept.”

  “As a habit, you know I eschew job offers. Allow me to sleep on this one.”

  “It’s a bit more complicated.”

  Tom’s exhaustion morphed to perturbed. “How so, commander?”

  Ochoa swayed his shoulders forward. “Dr. Mason, I’m hoping you accept because there is no alternative. Should you refuse, my superiors will fill the position by other means.”

  Tom noticed Lisa tighten in her seat, no doubt wrung by the man’s tone.

  “By other means,” Lisa asked, “meaning duties taken over by junior scientists, right? I don’t think you refer to the alternative. Commander, we still live in a free society.”

  Sam stopped tapping his pencil and looked to the doorway where conversation rambled in, grief slapped. The kitchen chair felt uncomfortable. The bones in his rump were sore from shifting. Anxiety rattled in his mom’s voice. He empathized her tremor in his larynx and pictured his dad’s nervous twitch—rubbing a thumb into his carpal tunnel.

  “Now, hold on Lisa,” Tom said and lifted his hand, ensuring not to project condescension. He loved and respected her, including her intensity and passion. However, these traits often bred spontaneity, something the Mason family bloodline abhorred. He was the organized root system under her chaotically swaying tree capturing every ray of sunlight in reach; each could not survive without the other. “Commander, can you please clarify other means?”

  “I am sorry, Dr. Mason, but your wife’s reaction is appropriate. Should you refuse, your presence will be requested as a matter of national security. Right now, you can still negotiate your GS level.”

  Tom stewed in his seat. Finishing his beer in several large swigs, he asked, “Lisa honey, can you get me another, please?”

  Whizzing by, she grabbed the empty bottle, ensuring her egress avoided Ochoa. The heat of her anger sanded Tom’s cheek as he wrought emotions to maintain diplomacy.

  “Ok, Commander Ochoa,” Tom asked, “what is a GS level?”

  “Government Salary level, sir.”

  “So, I would be, what”—he held his hand out, peering into his palm—“drafted?”

  “The draft is not in effect. You would be contracted as a United States citizen helping to uphold our country’s safety. I have a signed order in my car, should you refuse the offer.”

  “If I refuse?”

  “Dr. Mason, I am not immune to awkward situations. I may make you uncomfortable, but I know what is coming to Raleigh and the Eastern Seaboard. The news reports entire neighborhoods swept away by floods. Water-rotted trash piles build up high enough to shift traffic patterns and shunt rivers. Statistics describe chilling numbers: more homeowners dropping their insurance, more people rejected by health insurance, homelessness, and delays in repairing infrastructure.”

  Ochoa cracked his knuckles and continued, “As u
ncomfortable as it makes you, I do not care. Our country’s leaders tasked me to prepare various assets, whether using gentle persuasion or brute intimidation. In some cases, physical confrontation.”

  “I would not describe my position as uncomfortable,” said Tom scowling.

  Lieutenant Commander Andy Ochoa drummed his fingers. “If you refuse, you will be arrested under 10 U.S.C. 252.” Clearing his throat, he cited the regulation verbatim. “Whenever the President considers that unlawful obstructions, combinations, or assemblages, or rebellion against the authority of the United States, make it impracticable to enforce the laws of the United States in any State by the ordinary course of judicial proceedings, he may call into Federal service such of the militia of any State, and use such of the armed forces, as he considers necessary to enforce those laws or to suppress the rebellion.”

  He hesitated as the words melted into Tom’s brain.

  “Dr. Mason, there are people at the top who believe ongoing global events create a situation impracticable to enforce the laws of the United States.”

  Tom registered the commander’s implication. “Your superiors are forming a militia of, what, scientists and engineers? Absurd!”

  “An absurd reality, Dr. Mason. Harder for the news these days to get from A to B. Many bad things are happening in our great country. Many. California is in the spotlight, but up and down the East Coast and Midwest, civilization is losing control. Law enforcement weakens daily in the Midwest and Northeast to desperate, savage individuals calling themselves ‘jackers.’”

  “Jackers?”

  “Like the term ‘carjacker.’ A gang of vagrants and thieves who expand territory every day.”

  “This is insane…” Tom became lost in disbelief.

  Lisa dropped another beer in his hand, squeezed next to him in the rocking chair, and grimaced at Ochoa. Tom held her hand and remarked, “I knew things were getting worse, but I had no idea it was accelerating.”

  “We have no problem recruiting town militias. They slept in wet dreams waiting for this day to come, God bless them. Give them ammo and a healthy latitude, and they are content. Militias solve part of the equation, not the whole enchilada. Infrastructure, energy, predictive modeling—”